


Of which reason knows nothing

by EternalFire185



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFire185/pseuds/EternalFire185
Summary: A fleeting connection is no less genuine for its brevity. In which Jaskier is a fool, but an honest one.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion & You, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 210





	Of which reason knows nothing

**Author's Note:**

> To preface, I have never read the books or played the games, so we're in the canon of the TV show, not that it particularly matters. Oh also, I find Y/N grating, so none of that here.

Your back is aching and your feet are fit to fall off from how long you’ve been standing on them - hours today, trodding back and forth in the same 15 foot square stretch of bar, endless, endless pints slung to the patrons. Always bustling and never more so than when the evenings stretch long and the sun’s light is wan and cold. Why drink at home alone?

When the door creaks open, carrying in a flurry of slush, grimy from a day of stomping boots, you hardly look up. Another stranger, another face - but the odd stillness that follows is different enough to catch your attention. Standing in the doorway is a mountain of a man, nearly as broad as the width of the door, well-armoured and well-armed, two swords strapped at his back and another dagger at his side if your eyes are true. That armor is worn from years of use, and coated in grime from the road, turning the dark leather nearly grey. But even the sheen of weapons well-sharpened can’t hold your gaze, not when two eyes like yellow flames blaze from the dour seriousness of his masculine face, shock white hair falling to his shoulders. The sight of those eyes sends cold down to your very bones, like falling into icy water, breath hitching in your lungs. Witcher. 

No doubt a Witcher follows misery, and not the other way around - but they’re bedfellows all the same. You force yourself on numb legs to step towards him, wade through the tension in the room, the pressing weight of eyes on your back. 

“May I help you, sir?” you manage, and it comes out almost as jovial and relaxed as you’d hoped it would. 

He seems about to answer - his face is still rough, but handsomer now that you are standing nearer, and held in a detached but friendly enough way - when another, slighter figure squeezes past the bulk of his shoulders into the building, door slamming shut against the cold behind him. 

“Fair lady! We would be forever in your debt if you could give up but a morsel of bread, and a cool tankard to slake our unending thirst.” A fairer figure steps forth, standing between you and the Witcher to occupy a space just slightly more personal than a stranger. He’s young in the face, and as he smiles jovially at you, his straight white teeth speak to a life of some comforts. He is dressed in cobalt blue trousers and a padded gambeson of deep green, covered by a cloak lined in fur, thoroughly ruined at the bottom from travel. He shifts his shoulder to heft a large instrument, covered in leather and strapped to his back. Ah, a bard. Only compared to the presence of a Witcher, could he possibly ever have gone unnoticed, and even then, not for very long. 

With a single, subtle motion, he catches your hand, which was hanging limply at your side, in his. “Or perhaps we will be enlivened by the sheer beauty of your face, and the sustenance of a kind word.” His fingers are surprisingly rough against the soft palm of your hand, and his lips dry against your knuckles where he lays a chaste kiss. He lingers there, just for a beat too long, warm breath ghosting over your fingers and blue, blue eyes peering up out of a comely face. 

“Ha,” you manage, a breathless aborted laugh at your own expense, slipping your hand from his grasp. Before the creeping blush you can feel rising up your neck can reach your face, you turn slightly, motioning to the rest of the room, which is still eyeing the new occupants with some suspicion. “No need for flattery sir, you both may have a seat at any table of your liking. And so long as you have coin, I have both food and ale plenty.” 

Behind the bard, the Witcher gives a small grumble of acknowledgement and begins to move towards a table near the edge of the room, otherwise abandoned for the distant warmth of the hearth. Once his belongings are stowed in easy reach, he sits against the wall, bright gold eyes watching the door and broad shoulders hunched, as if against the cold, or the weight of watching eyes still held in his direction. 

The bard, oblivious to the tension or used to it in the company of his companion, follows at your heels as you retreat to the bar top. You put the solid wood between you, disquieted, but he makes no move to follow further, content to lean his hip against the carved table top, fingers idly tracing a design and his eyes following you. 

“What can I get you and your companion, sir?” you ask. He smiles at you again, an easy expression of joviality. 

“If you have no kind words for me, then perhaps ale and stew for us both. And a room if you have one.” 

“Twenty crowns for the food and ale, and another 60 for the night.” The charm behind his smile dims, as he scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“Ah, well… we are a bit light on coin for the room... Perhaps I could provide a few songs, draw in a larger crowd, and we could consider the debt between us resolved?” he says with a flourish, rapping his knuckles on the countertop before him, as if to strike the bargain merely by uttering it. You fight to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“I have no proof of your skill with a lute yet, to earn you a room for the night - plenty a man has carried an instrument he cannot hardly use. Give me a sample of your skill, and I shall consider it,” you say, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. 

“My lady drives a hard bargain,” he says with a smile, “but I am helpless but to agree.” He practically jogs back to the Witcher, who is still sitting alone in pensive silence, grabs up his lute and begins to strum a beautiful melody, fingers sure on the strings even as he looks at your face. You can feel a new blush creep into your cheeks under his scrutiny. A few patrons finally release their long stares to shift their attention to the bard, some nodding in appreciation at the tune, skillfully delivered. When finally the song draws to a close, a few amongst the crowd give a smattering of applause. 

He gives a short bow to the onlookers, pushes his lute against his back and turns again to face the bar. “Are you pleased my lady?” he asks, resting on his forearms against the countertop, pressing into the familiar space before you, until you must fall back half a step to keep your distance. 

“You have skill enough, but it will take more than that to please me,” you cannot help but say, smile pulling at the corner of your mouth at his audacity. He feigns shock, but his eyes are shining with mirth. “Here is a key to a room - you can stow your things and rest your head, so long as you play a while this evening to earn your keep.” You hold the key outstretched before you, and he slips it from your fingers, his warm hand lingering over yours. 

“Geralt,” he calls, his somber companion grunting in response, “I am off to take a bath, and then you may have a turn. Try not to make trouble in my absence!”

Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. The air seems colder again, as the truth of it sinks in. More furtive glances are stolen of the stoic Witcher, who pays them no mind. You steel yourself, draw a tankard of ale, and bring it to his lonely table, setting it before him even as his golden eyes turn to your face. 

“Thank you,” he says, a rumbling bass that you have to lean in close to catch. “My apologies for Jaskier,” he says, with a subtle incline of his head toward the stairs. You brush it off with a laugh and a shrug. 

“I have met plenty of men with honeyed tongues - his sweet lies are harmless.”

Geralt’s eyes flick over to your face, burn into you, and you wonder fleetingly if he does everything with such incredible intensity. He gives his head a gentle shake, in reprimand. 

“Jaskier is a fool, but an honest one,” he states with finality, then takes a long draught from his mug and turns his attention back to the room, the conversation apparently over. 

“Let me know if you need anything else,” you manage, and he gives a “hmm” of acknowledgement before you slip away back to the warmth of the rest of the room. 

You busy yourself with the ebb and flow of a busy room of thirsty patrons, and momentarily forget the two men who have shifted your evening so subtly out of alignment. You are distracted, cleaning glasses behind the bar, when a regular patron calls your name, empty cup held aloft in silent demand. The echo of your name from the stairs sends a shiver down your spine. 

Jaskier, freshly washed, with wet hair pushed back from his forehead, repeats your name, rolling it around in his mouth like he’s savoring honeyed wine, and you find a renewed blush roaring in your cheeks at the quirk of a smile on his lips. Are you a girl again, to blush at the mere uttering of your name? Gone is his gambeson, and the pale cream under-shirt he’s wearing is open at the throat, a dark thatch of hair peeking out of the neckline. 

You press away from the safety of the bar to answer the demanding cup, still held aloft, a tingle against the back of your neck from the press of Jaskier’s eyes, following you still. Finally, the weight of them lifts, as he moves to swipe a swig of his companion’s dwindling ale, and to gather his instrument across his chest. 

His voice is sure and sweet, even when he sings a bawdy jig that gets the more boisterous among the crowd to tap their tankards against their tables and sing along. But always, always those blue eyes follow you, his words aimed in your direction, drawing your focus back to his face like the inevitable pull of gravity. 

Finally you find yourself focused only on the shine of the bartop, and the rhythm of the swipes of your rag against it in time to the strumming of his lute. He calls out a simple melody, about a beautiful farmer’s daughter caught in a tryst with the blacksmith’s ugly son - there was a metaphor you had missed somewhere about stoking a fire - when your eyes finally return to his, drawn inexorably to meet them. 

He brings the raucous tale to a close, checks the strings of his instrument, then begins to play something more beautiful, more intricate and deeply forlorn. Of lost love, of a time gone by, and the endless movement of the stars. When he finishes you can feel the song settle into you like a weight. For all his skillful playing, the room is mostly empty now, hours into the cold dark of night. You hardly notice, caught in the magnetism of his eyes on your face. You nod once, wrench your gaze from his, slip from behind the bar and mount the stairs straight-backed, fists clenched in your gathered skirts so tight your knuckles strain at the skin. 

You reach your room, open the door and slip inside, leaving just a sliver of open space to betray your entrance. With trembling fingers you light a candle and then a second and a third, shedding dim, warm light throughout your sparing sleeping chambers. You wait there, heart thundering in your chest and a tightness in your throat that threatens to choke as one moment stretches to two, ten, thirty, and tears prick at the back of your eyes. Just as it feels as if your legs will collapse beneath you, there is a rap of knuckles at the door. 

Your heart redoubles its pace, a deep sweet ache spreading in the low of your gut. 

“Jaskier,” you hear yourself say, voice low and tight. The door creaks open to reveal his welcome face, followed by the rest of him. Despite his previous boldness, however, he stays there, leaning against the door until it shuts quietly behind him. Your fingers sting like nettles with the desire to touch him, but remain at your sides, stilled by fear. The ten paces between you is as much as miles away. Almost nervously, he runs a quick hand through his dark hair. 

“Have I done sufficiently well to please my lady? Or shall I be turned out on the street?” he teases, with a small smile on his full lips. 

“Your singing was good enough to earn your keep, but one more favor would please me,” you breathe, aiming for unaffected and breezy, but falling somewhere south of the mark. 

“Anything for someone so fair.” 

His smile only grows as you step silently across the floor, blue eyes sparkling with good cheer and something else, something darker, as you come to stop within arms reach. When had you decided to move? You cannot recall. 

“A kiss, then.” 

He tilts his head in fondness, and mirth, and the warmth of his gaze is like the late sun of spring on your face. Your hand finds his chest, drifting to touch the smooth column of his throat. His hands come to rest on your hips, but he makes no move further, eyes merely roving over your features, as if to memorize them. 

With a sigh, you step into the shelter of his embrace, arms tight around his middle and nose pressed to the soft skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He smells of sweat, warm bread, the gentle fragrance of soap from his bath, and a subtle masculine scent of his own. You drag your cheek against his collarbone, lay a gentle kiss at the hollow of his throat, and you feel a shiver run through him at the press of your lips against his skin. You pull back to look into his face again, anxious to look and to catalogue this moment, but caught in the deep blue of his gaze. 

He leans in, and catches you in a sweet, tender kiss. It sets you ablaze. You surge forward, pushing flush against him, against the sturdy wood of the door behind him, pressing to mold your body against his. Close is not close enough, even when his arms wrap tight against your waist to pull you in. A hunger that you haven’t felt in such a long time awakens like a living thing in your chest, and your fists move to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands. He groans against your questing lips, and you cannot help but to lick into the heat of his open mouth, to taste him. He responds with a fervor of his own, one hand coming up to catch your jaw, his thumb swiping tenderly at your cheek, even as he tilts your head for better access, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. 

Your blood is fire in your veins, and the world narrows to the exploration of his mouth, the touch of his tongue against yours, the press of his hands against your skin. You pull back gasping, lips tingling, breasts heaving against the press of your corset. You need to touch his skin, see him. Your chest aches with the desperation of it. 

“My love,” he breathes, bringing his thumb to trace your bottom lip - swollen and oversensitive from the tease of his lips and teeth. You let your tongue swipe across the rough pad of his finger, and his blue, blue eyes darken. Your hands fall from his hair, thoroughly mussed, to pull at the extra fabric of his under-shirt at the waist, tugging it free from the confines of his breeches until you can fit your hands beneath it and against his chest, practically purring at reaching his skin. 

He makes a noise, half laugh, half groan at the sensation and you cannot help but pull yourself flush against him again, mouth questing for his, drowning in the intoxicating heat of him. He kisses you breathless again, deft fingers winding in your hair to pull out the braid, until your hair falls in soft waves around your face- his fingers against your scalp send shivers down your spine. Even when he pulls back, your lips chasing his for a moment, you cannot seem to catch your breath. 

Truly, your breath comes in short pants. The room seems to tilt, the horizon not settling quite right. He makes a frustrated noise, and quickly spins you with a muttered curse. 

“Jaskier, you fool,” he admonishes himself, and distantly you feel his fingers at the button closures of your deep blue woolen dress - your favorite, you think absently. It is unbuttoned and pushed down your shoulders, to reveal the corset underneath. Your chest aches at a deeper tightness around your waist as he works his fingers into the tight laces of your corset, tugging them free. With a small sound of triumph, the blasted thing comes undone, and you can take large gulping lungfulls of cool night air, as he slips your dress off your limp arms and to pool at the floor by your feet. The corset follows shortly, landing with a small thud, leaving you in nothing but your chemise. You kick the offending garment away and let your head fall backwards against his warm chest. “I’ve never worn one you see, so I always forget how difficult it can be to exert oneself while so restrained.” 

A bit breathless still, you manage to speak, voice low and rough, “I am normally not so caught up as to forget to remove it before the exertion begins.” He laughs softly behind you, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck, so simple an action, but it rekindles heat of your desire, a point of flame in the pit of your stomach. 

“I will be flattered then, to so thoroughly distract my lady,” he whispers against your skin. You turn your head to deliver some as-yet unthought of verbal spar when he licks purposefully at the column of your throat and you forget every thought inside your head at once.You mean to spin, to catch his mouth with yours again, but his arms tighten like two iron bands around your middle, to pull you flush against his body. The evidence of his arousal presses against you, the heat of it felt even through layers of clothing. 

One hand keeps you tight against him, while the other comes up to gently feel the weight of your breast, fingertips brushing against the underside with careful purpose. Even through your chemise the touch leaves you weak in the knees, a high keening sound pulled from your throat, unbidden. His fingers trace the tightening bud of a nipple and you clench your thighs at the sensation, swallowing back another needy sound, whole body going stiff when those same fingers pinch tight and give a short tug, electricity shooting directly to your core. But you are not content only to be touched, to be teased. 

Your hands find the left arm still wrapped around your waist, pulling gently to prompt him to release, and you bring his fingers to your lips. His right hand moves to grant affection to your other breast, but stalls in its progress when you press a kiss against the back of his hand, when you gently trace a line across the pad of his finger with your tongue. His right hand presses flat against your chest when you pull his left index finger into the soft, warm heat of your mouth, swirling your tongue around the length of it. You can feel your heart thudding beneath his palm, and the echo of his heartbeat against your back where your bodies are pressed together. 

You release his finger from your mouth with a wet sound and his gentle “fuck” in response sends another jolt through you. His teeth scrape against the skin at the top of your shoulder and a soft moan slips from between your lips when he presses harder against your back and his teeth find greater purchase on the tender flesh there. 

At once, he withdraws his body from against yours, and the sudden absence of his solid warmth sends goosebumps rising across your skin. Outside the shelter of his arms the night air is cool. You turn to find him appraising you from a few feet away, heavy-lidded eyes dark as they peruse your flushed form, paying special attention to your breasts, nipples obvious beneath your chemise, tightening from the cold and the weight of his gaze. 

The outline of his cock is obvious where it presses against the closure of his breeches, and your mouth fills with saliva at the sight of it. Without thought, you raise your hand to him, to beckon, to beg if you must, but before your lips can form the words he is moving again before you, stopping just within arm’s reach. He stares at you a moment, contemplative, and perhaps the most serious you have seen him yet this evening. Silently, he falls to one knee, and your hand moves to his face, where he looks up at you with wonder, and with soft affection. You push back a strand of dark hair from his forehead, and he sighs at the touch, eyes fluttering closed, dark eyelashes laid against his fair cheek, pale skin glowing under the gentle touch of candle-light. 

His hands, burning hot compared to the cool air of the room, rise to your waist as his eyes open again, blazing with intensity, but tender all the same. He pulls against you, pressing his face against the soft flesh of your middle, heaving a gentle sigh, the warm moisture of his breath felt against your skin even through the rough linen of your clothing. He noses against you, and despite the heady desire still thrumming through you, incongruous tears prickle behind your eyes at the tenderness of it. You wrap your arms around him, pressing tight into an embrace. You are at odds with yourself - at once you yearn to kiss him again, drown in the desire that has set your flesh ablaze, and also to let yourself be held in simple comfort, to run your fingers through his hair and sink into the comforting weight of being cared for. 

He pulls back slightly, your fingers laced behind his head, to look once again at your face. You brush a thumb against the softness of his cheek in a tender, thoughtless show of affection. A smile, bright and warm breaks across his face, and you can feel its echo on your own. 

“You are a goddess,” he breathes, and it is ridiculous, and utterly honest. “I meant only to help relieve you of your boots, and yet I fell to worshipping at your feet.” You cannot help but laugh, gently at first, and then until your shoulders shake with it. He only smiles serenely at you from his place of veneration. When was the last time you laughed?

“Alright then,” you manage breathlessly, when the worst of your mirth has passed, “o devout pilgrim, do your holy duty.” You grab the edge of your skirt to raise it, revealing your calf-skin boots, still laced tight. With a grin, and a bow, he stoops to the level of your knees, his fingers finding the edge of your boots, and beginning their task to loosen them from your feet. He makes short work of the boots, pulling free first one foot and then the other, lending his strong shoulder for your balance as you step out of each. 

His nimble fingers caress the curve of a calf, and the heat of his hands burns through the woolen stocking still adorning your feet. The air between you shifts with the subtle charge of tension, his face level with the heat of your sex, which is shielded only from the piercing blue of his gaze by the skirt held tightly in one hand, and your small-clothes. 

His eyes flick to yours, sapphire nearly swallowed by blown pupils, hungry and intense. His hands skim up the back of your calves, across the side of your thighs, to find the simple garters holding up your stockings. Calloused, clever fingers slip over the sides of your hips, drawing out a sigh of breath. Still his questing hands rove upwards, toying with the edge of your simple underclothes, skimming along the waistband, until the skin of your abdomen jumps under his soft touch. You long to rub your thighs together, to relieve the tight ache curling low in your gut, but his careful ministrations keep you still, waiting in unbearable tension for his fingers to stray to where you so desperately want them. 

Instead his hands seem to find their purpose again, loosening the garter at the top of your right thigh, and slowly, inch by inch, rolling the woolen stocking down the soft skin of your leg. You realize that you are clenching at the shoulder that once offered you support, fingers digging into the flesh beneath your hand, but he voices no complaint. Unhurried, he hands trail again up the expanse of your leg to loosen the other garter, sliding this stocking down as well, but this time letting the callouses of his fingertips skirt after it, a shudder racing down your spine at the sensation. Again you step out of each one, but you can feel a tremble in your legs that makes it difficult to stand. 

Without warning he pushes his head beneath the tent of your skirt to press an open-mouthed kiss against the soft inside of your thigh, the heat of it causing your knees to nearly buckle, and a low moan to tear from your throat. He presses another searing kiss, higher this time, another strangled cry wrenched out of you, sweat breaking out on the back of your neck. He pauses, breath ghosting over your thighs as he does nothing but breathe you in. Your brain shorts, torn between wanting him to never stop, to please, gods, touch you again with his mouth, and to get him out from beneath your blasted skirt so you can see him again, kiss him again. The latter desire narrowly wins out, your hands grasping fistfulls of his shirt, which curse him, he is _still_ wearing, and he pulls back, reluctantly, to meet your gaze. 

Roughly you pull him to his feet, crashing your lips against his, fingers tearing at his clothes, tangling in his hair, desperate to sink into him, closer than skin. You worry, for a moment, that this is too much, but effortlessly he matches the timbre of your desire, pulling you tight against him and licking into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking at your tongue. You break the kiss only long enough to pull his shirt over his head, fingers spreading over the bared skin of his chest and raking down the planes of his abdomen, growling with pleasure when he groans at the feeling. Your hands are moving of their own accord, dipping beneath the waist of his trousers, stilling only when you feel nothing but soft, smooth skin, and the hard planes of his hip bones under your questing fingers. His breath stutters, and he sinks back against the door behind him when you drag your nails along the button closure of his breeches. Finally, finally you press your hand full against him, feel the length of his cock beneath your fingers and hear him let out a choked moan, one hand clenching unthinkingly at your arm, the other fisted in his own hair. 

You fall to your knees before him, as pious and as adoring, but lacking the self control to do nothing more than press soft kisses to his thighs. Your anxious fingers fumble at the fastening of his breeches, but finally they give way, and he gives a shuddering sigh as his member is released from its confines. He is well-formed, not overly long, but thick, and straining upwards, bowed towards his belly. With trembling fingers you grasp the length of him, feeling the burning hardness of him, like iron wrapped in velvet softness. His head falls against the wall behind him with a _thunk_ , a stream of incoherent syllables falling from his lips. 

“Jaskier,” you breathe, unintentional, but his eyes shoot open to find your face. His gaze holds yours, eyes hooded, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. Unthinking, you echo the motion, and his gaze falls to your mouth. Released from magnetism of his eyes, yours fall back to his cock, which twitches under your scrutiny, pre-cum beading at the tip. Shifting your grip to his cock’s base, you drag the flat of your tongue along the entire length of him, pulling the head into the warmth of your mouth, swirling your tongue around to taste him. 

He tastes like salt and musk, masculine and intoxicating. You pull him deeper in, moaning around the weight of him on your tongue, his hand tangling into your hair, fisting against your scalp. All you can think of is the slide of your mouth around him, the movement of your hand at the base of his cock, the intoxicating sound of his ragged breathing and subtle moans. You work your free hand into his trousers to pull them down, so that you can clutch at his thigh, scratch your nails across his abdomen and down, causing him to shiver and his member to twitch even in your mouth. Releasing him with a wet _pop_ , you trace the thick vein on the underside with your tongue, caressing a line around the head, still working the slick length of him in your tight fist, twisting your wrist at the end of each tug. 

With a stuttering breath, he calls your name, beautiful voice wrecked with need. You look up through your lashes at him and his chest is heaving, a deep flush worked down his neck and shoulders. 

“Wait,” he manages, and your hand stills around him. You fall back on your heels to admire him, nearly undone before you and struggling to compose himself. “Fuck,” he breathes, and you are reminded of the soaking wetness of your underclothes, the insistent pressure at the cleft between your thighs. Your lips tingle with the desire to take him in your mouth again, to drive him over the edge and to see him truly spent, and your fingers itch with the need to finally touch yourself where you have been aching to be touched for an age now. 

Before you can do either, his strong hands encircle your wrists, pulling you easily to your feet. He tugs you into his arms, kisses you breathless, his desire still pressed between you. He breaks away, a slight edge of desperation still coloring his voice, but with more composure than before. 

“Let me put my mouth on you,” he asks, voice low, “please.” The request knocks the wind out of you, the earnestness of it. You can’t do much more than nod numbly, worried if you open your mouth to say anything you wont be able to stop yourself from begging. Yes, please, more, anything. 

He gestures to the bed, and you realize with a start that you have spent all this time just inside the door, barely having traversed the room, so caught up in your desire for each other. You walk, unsteady, to the closest side of the bed, but you can hardly force yourself to sit upon the edge in a mockery of relaxation - every inch of you wants to turn around, to fall back into his embrace. Still, you command your traitorous flesh to yield, to wait. He toes off his boots, sets them by the door, peels his trousers down well-shaped thighs and calves, kicks them aside, finally standing before you utterly nude. His skin is pale and still gently flushed from the earlier exertion, course dark hair thick on his chest and trailing down his abdomen in a line to his groin. 

He hesitates there, or gives you the moment to admire for yourself, a soft smile on his face as he watches your feigned nonchalance. In a moment of bravery, you stand, pulling your shift over your head in one swift motion and letting it fall to the floor, so that both of you stand bare before each other. He makes a sound of appreciation, eyes roving across the expanse of your flesh, but waits. You settle again upon the bed, resting on one elbow, legs splayed open. You reach out with one hand outstretched, fingers trembling ever so slightly, in invitation. In three quick strides he closes the distance between you, catching the back of your neck with one hand, mouth slanting over yours in a searing kiss. The other trails down your neck, caressing the hard plane of bone under which your heart beats a wild tattoo, before finally kneading gently at the flesh of your breast, nipple achingly tight beneath his palm. Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, exploring your mouth with tender thoroughness. 

His hand fists in your hair, pulling back to give him access to the column of your throat, and the jolt it sends through you causes your knees to fall apart in wanton desire. He nibbles at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw, sucks your earlobe between his teeth, even as his hand moves to pay equal attention to your other breast. The sensations are overwhelming, and your hands can do little more than traverse every inch of his skin you can reach. He bites down on the tender flesh of the side of your neck, then lathing the small hurt with his tongue so the pain and pleasure blur together. He is teasing one such spot, so that you are certain to have evidence of his affection the next morning, when his fingers trail down the length of your torso, to finally, finally, touch the aching wetness at the juncture of your thighs. You are dripping, and his fingers easily slip along your folds, to circle at your clit. You toes curl, a desperate sound wrung out of you, while his moan buzzes against your skin where his lips are pressed tight. 

“My lady,” be breathes against you, voice rough and fingers making slow circles around the bundle of nerves that sends pleasure rolling over you in waves. “I want to taste you, _fuck_ , I want to drink you in. Please, if you’ll allow it.” He draws back, bright eyes pinning you, deadly serious, even as you gasp and pant beneath the endless ministrations of his other hand. You aren’t certain that you respond in fully-formed words, beyond a throaty cry of his name and an urgent nod of consent, head spinning and hips chasing the movement of his fingers, desperate for more. 

Still, even for the strain of his voice, he takes his time to taste the sweat on your skin, to lathe at the stiff peak of a nipple, to dip into the divot of your navel, all the while his clever fingers never cease making those careful slow circles, delicious but without the urgency required to do more than stoke your desire. The hand in your hair releases you, and he slides off the edge of the bed, positioning his body in the space between your parted knees. His other hand momentarily ceases its attention, and you fall back against the sheets, cool against your fevered skin, with an audible whine that would be unbecoming if you had half a mind to care about such things. Both palms slide up the length of your thighs, fingers teasing at the hollows of your hip bones, before his thumbs part your labia, leaving you utterly open to his inspection. 

With the flat of his tongue he licks a solid stripe from your entrance to your clit, causing every muscle in your abdomen and thighs to jump at the first touch of the slick heat of his mouth. He devours you, discovers you, drinks you in, humming lightly at the taste, the softness of your cunt. Your hips move of their own volition, rocking against the gentle swirl of his tongue around your swollen clit. You are speaking, but you forget the words as soon as they’ve left your mouth, mindless praise, prayers, sounds falling from your lips like soft rain. 

When he sinks two fingers into the heat of your cunt, withdraws them, repeats the motion, your hands fist, instinctually, in his russet hair, body curling to look down at his face, focused yet serene as he savors you, blue eyes looking up through dark lashes. The sight of it causes goosebumps to rise across your skin. He crooks his fingers inside of you and brushes against something perfect, the sensation of it blazing through you, white hot. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” you manage “ _please_.” You are teetering on the edge, sickeningly, shudderingly close. Every line of your figure is tight with tension, seeking the crest of a wave that only builds and builds. Your eyes screw shut, breath stilted, hampered by the storm sparking in your belly. He persists, keeping up the same steady rhythm, inexorable, humming soft encouragement against you. Suddenly, suddenly in the span of a single breath, the entirety of existence shrinks to the roaring eruption of pleasure starting at the apex of your thighs, washing over you, white light exploding behind closed eyelids, a universe of chaos and order, tension and release contained in the confines of your body.

Slowly, you come back to yourself, his mouth still gently coaxing aftershocks of pleasure from you, your body leaden and satiated. Your fingers are stiff when you loosen them from his hair, rubbing a gentle apology into his scalp. He gives you one last swipe with his tongue, your legs jerking involuntarily at the sensation, before he hovers above you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and appraising you with smoldering, hooded eyes. You cannot help but reach for him, pulling him to you to taste the evidence of your own arousal on his lips. He moans into your mouth, the hot iron of his cock still pressing hard against your hip. 

You apply gentle pressure to his shoulder and he falls onto his back, pliable beneath your hands, his own going to your hips as you swing a leg over to mount him. His eyes rove over you, filled with admiration and lust both, until you catch them with your own, holding his gaze as you sink onto his cock, sliding in a single motion until he is fully seated within you. He stills, waits for your body to adjust to the delicious stretch of him, lips pressed together in a thin line. Your bodies fit perfectly together, pleasure singing through you at the stuttering, involuntary movement of his hips when your inner walls clench around him. 

He groans at the first real movement of your hips, just grinding into him, his hands clenching at your waist. The pace you set is punishingly slow, teasing, just enjoying the build of tension and the melodic sounds of his pleasure as they fill the air before you. You place one hand on his abdomen, muscles jumping beneath your touch, and the other comes up to play with your own breast, pinching at a sensitive nipple. With a growl, he sits up, a hand coming up to prop up your back while the other aligns your face so he can kiss you, open-mouthed and filthy. This change in angle lets him fuck up into you properly, hitting something deep and devastating inside of you with each shallow thrust, and it is your turn to gasp and moan into his mouth. 

He presses his forehead against yours, both of you breathing in harsh pants as his pace slowly builds, sweat standing out on both your skins. Bodily he picks you up, turning you over so he can gain more leverage, and pleasure burns through you like wildfire, blazing in your blood as his cock begins to pull nearly all the way out of you before slamming back in to the hilt. His fingers push between your bodies to make tight circles around your swollen clit. Like a rising tide, you can feel the coiling tension of a second orgasm building in your spine, as his hips slap against you with the obscene, wet sounds of your bodies joining. 

“I’m, I’m going to,” you say, before his lips crash against yours in a searing kiss. You only have the chance to gasp before every muscle in your body spasms, your cunt locking down on his cock like a vice. The force of it crashes over you, drowning you in sensation that washes everything else away. Jaskier’s hips stutter, slow, still fucking you through it even as he mutters your name, over and over like a mantra, or a prayer. One, two, three pumps later and he withdraws, even as you whine from the loss, walls clenching on nothing. With a strangled cry he comes, cock in his hand, thick ropes of cum falling onto your stomach, your breasts. 

With a shaky laugh you fall boneless against the bed beneath you, utterly spent. His head falls to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin. Your fingers gently comb through his hair, putting it to rights after the damage you did earlier. He presses a soft kiss against your shoulder, looking up to catch your gaze with a smile. Sweat and semen both cool rapidly on your skin, as the chill night air reasserts itself in your consciousness - forgotten in the heat of your earlier exertions. 

With a sigh he extricates himself from your embrace and stands, and for the briefest of moments your heart drops into your stomach, but he makes no motion to leave, instead traveling to the small basin of water you keep to wash your hands and face. He dips a small washcloth into the cool water, and rings it out, his back to you and affording you a view of the supple shape of his narrow hips and firm ass. You blush at your own boldness, a foolish notion given what you have just done together. He returns to you, wiping away the evidence of your lovemaking with gentle ministrations that leave your skin humming with a softer sort of pleasure. 

Refreshed, you slip beneath the simple sheet and woolen blanket on your bed, holding out a hand outstretched to him. 

“Stay with me?” you ask, voice soft, unsure. 

“My lady, I would like nothing more,” he says, sidling in beside you, still nude, your skin buzzing at each simple point of contact between you. He settles in, sighing with a weariness that is bone deep, but with a simple smile of contentment on his face. You rest there a moment, studying the strong cut of his jaw, the soft curve of his cheek, before he stirs, as if sensing your eyes upon him. His eyes open, that endless clear blue of a summer sky. 

“Have you had many lovers?” you ask, hardly thinking of the words before giving them a voice. He studies you, but does not balk at the question. 

“Yes,” he answers, with a small nod. 

“Do you… do you remember them all?” He turns to face you more fully, contemplating you seriously, one hand coming over to trace idle patterns on your arm. 

“Yes, I remember them all.” 

“And will you remember me?” you ask. His face breaks out into a genuine smile at the question, full of an intoxicating warmth. What you would give to bask in that for just a little while longer. 

“I will remember you until the end of my days,” he whispers, brushing a finger against your cheek. _A fool_ , you think, _but an honest one. Y_ ou press your lips against his smiling mouth in a sweet, simple kiss, then pillow your head against his chest to listen to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. He wraps his arms around you with a sigh, and both of you drift off into deep, dreamless sleep. 

When you awake it is early morning, just as the first rays of wan light from the winter sun begin to spill in through your windows. You are tangled up together, a mess of limbs and blanket, intertwined and deeply comfortable. Still, you force yourself to stir, to extricate yourself from the warmth of his embrace. His hands chase after you, even in his sleep. With gentle fingers you trace the smooth line of his brow, down his straight nose and across his full lips, until his eyes blink open blearily at your subtle touch. 

“Jaskier,” you whisper, “your Witcher friend will be waiting. I would wager he has been up for an hour or more, even now.” He groans, stretching and pressing himself against you, a simple action that stokes a subtle spark in your blood. It could be fanned to flame if you were to let it, and you think of how maddeningly easy it would be to be consumed by the feeling of desiring, and of being desired. Instead you slip from the warmth of the covers to don a clean chemise, stockings, boots and a thick winter cloak over top, shivering still against the chill. Jaskier curses as he goes about collecting his discarded clothing, looking thoroughly wrinkled even upon re-assembly of yesterday evening’s outfit. He has his hand upon the handle of the door before he hesitates, looking back to you. 

“Ready?” he asks. 

“No,” you laugh, but you brush past him to open the door anyways, climbing down the stairs without looking back. True to your prediction, the white haired Witcher sits at a side table, facing both the door and the stairs, fully dressed and with his swords within easy reach. His yellow gaze follows you both down the stairs, appraising without comment. As soon as Jaskier reaches the bottom step, he stands. 

“Let’s go,” he says, voice low. Jaskier sputters beside you now, gathering up his discarded gambeson from a nearby chair. 

“Geralt, see reason! Could we not stay for breakfast and then set out once the sun has had a chance to warm the earth for more than an hour? A fine meal would do you good,” he implores, nearly pleading. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, “we’re going.” With a sigh, Jaskier moves from your side to gather the remainder of his things, muttering under his breath even as he does so. “Thank you,” the Witcher says, startling you from your focus on the bard. “We appreciate the hospitality.” You nod in affirmation, and, apparently satisfied, he turns and leaves as abruptly as he arrived just the night before, the door closing with finality behind him. 

Jaskier returns to stand before you, lute strapped again to his back, blue eyes shining. He stoops to catch your hand in his, laying upon the knuckles an echo of his kiss in greeting. 

“My lady, I will carry you in my heart, until next we meet,” he says, smiling, but tinged with sadness. _And I you_ , you mean to say, but the words are stuck in your throat. Instead you tug him forward to press your mouth against his, inelegant, but you pour into it everything you can’t say. His kiss in return has the same bittersweet undercurrent of sorrow. When you pull back to draw breath he presses your foreheads together, eyes closed and breath mingling, the circle of your arms the entirety of existence, for just the span of a few heartbeats. Finally, he presses away, stepping back to the entryway and turning to leave. He tarries just a moment at the door, hesitating, before he turns back to call your name. You will remember that, you think, the way he says your name so that it is both a farewell, and a promise. Then, with a flourish and a wink, he is gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> I watched an interview with Joey Batey, where he said the following regarding Jaskier:  
> "There was something that I really wanted to make clear. That although, yeah, Jaskier does enjoy the finer things in life... fine wine, fine clothing, fine company, the stereotypical womanizer character I think is a little played out. It's not necessarily particularly interesting to watch anymore. We have interpreted it in a slightly stronger way. It's not that he womanizes, he just falls in love with everyone. He has such a capacity for love that he will be completely in love with whoever he's talking to. And then he'll spot someone and be like, I love them now as well. He's genuinely just like a puppy dog, sort of completely obsessed with whoever is in front of him." 
> 
> This characterization wouldn't leave me alone and 8 thousand-ish self-indulgent, barely edited words later, here we are.


End file.
